


Home for the Holidays

by Lightspeed



Series: Monstrous Intent [32]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Angst, Blind Character, Childhood Trauma, Children, Coal - Freeform, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cyborgs, Djinni & Genies, Dullahan!Soldier, Dullahans, F/M, Family, Faun!Scout, Fauns & Satyrs, Fireplaces, Garuda - Freeform, Grandchildren, Heavy's Papa, Humor, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Kissing, Kitsune, Loneliness, M/M, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Multi, Okonomiyaki, Pajamas & Sleepwear, Past Relationship(s), Photographs, Poetry, Presents, Regret, Reindeer, Reindeer Costume, Restaurants, Romance, Santa's Helper, Smissmas, Smissmas Presents, Soviet Union, Werewolf!Demoman, Werewolves, cyborg!Engineer, djinni!Pyro, garuda!Medic, half-jotun!Heavy, kitsune!Spy, wedding photos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smissmas Furlough is the most feared, most dreaded, most eagerly awaited furlough of the year for the employees of BLU.  They get time off for the holiday itself, a few days before, and the rest of the time through new year’s day, with mercy for hangovers.  Each member of the team has his own way of celebrating.  Some together, some apart, some with family, some alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bee Cave, Texas, USA.  December 20th, 1969.

Engineer watched, a crooked smile stuck on his face, as Pyro fed more logs into the fireplace, rolling up one sleeve to reach directly into the blaze and shift the wood about, stacking them for optimal burn, a quivering, shifting glow of pastel colours surrounding his fiery flesh as it passed through the heat.

The den of Engineer's cabin was dark, all light extinguished save for the firelight, and the moon and stars casting a silvery glow in through the windows. The ranch was quiet, all of the hands long retired to their own homes, leaving the place's lone owner, a man who rarely directly oversaw his family's business, to spend the first night of his Smissmas furlough alone with his lover.

The djinni, finished with his task, rolled his sleeve back down, his thick, fluffy pink sweater's sleeves falling past his hands. He wore a pair of mismatched blue pajama pants covered in unicorns, and a pair of fluffy slippers shaped like kittens. With his flaming curls tugged up into high pigtails at the back of his head, he was the portrait of saccharine cuteness painted in fire and wool. Engineer's heart nearly melted at the sight of his beloved, comfortable with him and himself.

Pyro retrieved his empty mug from the hearth, and wandered back over to the couch on which his lover reclined, curled under a ratty old quilt, smiling dreamily in his direction. "Want more cocoa?"

"Put your mug down," the Texan said, mirth playing on his voice.

Pyro did as he was told, and quickly found himself dragged down to the couch by two strong arms around his hips, yelping as he was pulled off balance. He landed atop Engineer, throwing an arm out against the back of the couch to keep from smacking his nose into the Texan's, a laugh curling out of his lips. "So, you don't want cocoa then?"

"Nah," Engineer replied, nosing at Pyro's temple and planting a kiss at the corner of his eye, flickering colours of heatless flame shifting beneath his lips. "I just want you. You're all I could ever want."

A giddy grin crossed Pyro's teeth, and he threw his sweater-sheathed arms around the stout human, bringing their lips together in a sloppy, smacking kiss. His hair fell about their faces, fiery curls dancing in non-existent breezes, soft and tickling at the Texan's chin. When they parted, the djinni scooted down the shorter man's body to rest his head on his lover's chest. "So, a whole twelve days for furlough."

"Saturday off and everythin'," Engineer chuckled.

"And we have the whole place to ourselves."

"We're far enough away from the ranch proper where we have the run of the yard an' the woods out back. Total freedom."

"I like the sound of that," Pyro smiled.

"Me too."

"Merry Smissmas, Dell."

"Merry Smissmas, darlin'."


	2. Dzhugdzhur Mountains, Siberia, USSR.  December 21st, 1969.

"This is from our wedding. My papa did not like Bjorn. He was two feet taller than Papa, and his grandparents were not Russian like my family. Bjorn was born here, raised Russian, as were his parents. They bled Russian. Papa warmed to Bjorn in time, but he worried for me," Heavy's Mama explained, displaying a crumpled, creased, and battered photograph. It was in black and white, and displayed a strangely mismatched couple: the broad, Russian woman in her younger, more demure years, dressed in a coloured gown covered in embroidery and a veil, standing beside an eight foot tall literal giant wearing an embroidered shirt and fine trousers and boots.

The giant dwarfed his wife, his jaw wide and square, his eyes sharp and bright, pale even in the colourless photograph, though they creased at their corners with mirth. He had the same aquiline nose his son and two of his daughters bore, and close-cropped, dark hair. His muscle was visible even through his clothing, massive and strong, his body broad and thick, and his bulk made the man appear intimidating in spite of the utter joy in his expression as he held his wife's comparatively tiny hands in his own.

Medic blinked owlishly at the photograph, looking from Heavy, to his Mama, back to the photograph, a flurry of thoughts rushing through his mind at once.

Heavy looked so much like his father it was uncanny. He had the same severe eyes, the same hawkish nose, the same wide, angular jaw, the same size and bulk, and while he clearly wore his mama's smile and hair colour, the resemblance to the Jotun named Bjorn was incredible. Looking around to Heavy's sisters, gathered around and observing the handsome doctor their big brother had brought home for Smissmas with great interest, he could see exactly where their features came from. Zhanna's dark hair, and nose, the width of Yana's jaw (though its shape, and much of her face, was very strongly her mother's), the sharpness of Bronislava's face and her similarly avian nose. The three eldest clearly had shreds of his size, Heavy and Zhanna both tall and broad and laden with muscle, while Yana shared height but lacked as much bulk. Bronislava, the youngest of the brood, was also the smallest, her height above normal, but not nearly so imposing as her siblings, and she was similarly much slimmer than them. She made up for it by being composed largely of wiry muscle, as Medic had seen when she'd rolled up her sleeves to move furniture to make way for the Smissmas tree to be set up.

Looking back to Heavy's Mama, the doctor tried very hard to push away his sheer wonder at the fact that the woman had not only married and made love to a giant of that size, but also that she'd given birth to four half-Jotun children. Her body's tolerance for pain must be superhuman.

"He was very handsome," Medic replied, looking over the photograph again, his voice warm, gentle. He could hear the fondness in Mama's voice, tinged with sadness. It had been a long time since Bjorn had been put to death. Heavy had told him the story, about how he was a counter-revolutionary, organizing humans and supernaturals against the Soviets, about how he'd been sussed out, arrested, executed, and his family thrown in a gulag. About how Heavy, fresh out of university, his dreams for the future crushed, had burned and tortured his way out of that prison, his loved ones in tow.

Heavy had also told him about the resentment he felt, how he admired his father's convictions, and the father he was, and loved him deeply, but how he hated the man he'd become. The activist who put the people closest to him in danger because he stuck his neck out too far without a plan in place.

The mercenary would say, "Protection first. Principles second."

"He was," Mama replied, sadly. Her son's hand fell to her shoulder, gripping it tightly. "This is the only photograph I have of him. Am glad I have something to show you. You have seen the greatest gifts he gave to me," she smiled, laying a hand on Heavy's.

Medic smiled. "Generous to a fault. Though I cannot imagine that half-Jotun children were easy to raise."

"They were such tiny babies," Mama grinned, looking up at her son, who towered over her. "Misha was...eh," she searched for the right word, "early. Pre—"

"Premature?"

"Da. Premature. Was little over month early. He was so tiny," Mama cooed, grinning as her son grew visibly embarrassed.

"You're saying Misha was underweight?"

"He was tiniest baby. You should have seen his papa hold him. He fit in one hand like was nothing!"

Medic grinned at that, "And look at him now."

Heavy sighed, letting go of his mama to wrap his arms around Medic and lead him toward the door, hoping to get him off of this slightly embarrassing train of conversation. "Da, is good. Now you have seen Papa. Dinner tonight will not catch self. Come with Misha. We go together, Doktor."

"Why does handsome Doktor have to go?" Zhanna grumbled, tucking her legs up under herself on the couch. Her eyes roved Medic, making him shift uncomfortably.

"Da! Want to talk to Doktor more! Misha only brought one of two boyfriends! Is our chance to learn more! Maybe see more," Yana agreed, earning a snicker from her older sister.

"Must get to know man who makes Misha send home gooey letters halfway like poems whenever he writes about his Doktor," Bronislava agreed, earning a red-faced stare from her brother, returning it with a grin.

Yana nodded. "Misha is big romantic babyman, Doktor."

"Is true," Zhanna agreed.

"Letters like poems?" Medic teased, looking up at his lover.

"I, eh," Heavy sighed, unable to explain without making things more embarrassing for himself.

"Schatz, you act like I have not seen you scratching things down in that notebook of yours at night."

"Is in Russian," the giant grumbled.

"Und I hope you will read it to me. Make it a Smissmas gift?"

"Doktor is Jewish."

"Then a verdammt Chanukah gift. Eight poems."

"Dermo," Heavy grunted, defeated.

"It is flattering," Medic assured him, cozying deeper into Heavy's arms, nosing against his chin. He tilted up for a kiss, chaste yet lingering, but broke into a snorting laugh when the giant's sisters began exaggeratedly cooing over the adorable display of affection.


	3. Chūō-ku, Osaka, Japan.  December 22nd, 1969.

"Welcome!" called a round-faced man standing behind the counter, speaking Japanese. He nodded in greeting as a tall, slim man walked into his lonely, out of the way shop. The new customer had a prominent, almost aquiline nose, and eyes pale enough to be golden. His hair was combed back, but greyed at the temples and widow's peak, and he carried himself with grace and detachment. He wore traditional clothes, a navy kimono and haori with subtle embroidery in a slightly lighter shade of blue. His obi was similarly subdued, with flecks of white in its pattern, and his hakama bore pale pin-stripes. He presented the look of someone headed to, or home from, some special occasion. Though perhaps he just wanted to show off his impeccably tailored and pressed clothing.

"Un," he mumbled, with a nod, then cast half-lidded eyes about the establishment. It was a smallish restaurant, with a counter against one wall, a door to a kitchen behind it and small booth tables lining two walls, each table set with a griddle and strewn about with sauce bottles and jars of garnishes. The smell of oil and frying batter filled the place alongside onions, fish, and an array of other savory aromas. It filled his lungs and senses, and at once, he was both incredibly nostalgic and voraciously hungry. He spied an occupied table in the back corner, next to the window, and made a beeline for it.

A petite woman with the same prominent nose sat there, staring out the window and looking bored, dressed with a more conservative style. She wore an overlarge, warm-looking red sweater, knee-height brown boots, stockings beneath them, and a mini-skirt in a shade of orange just this side of dreadful. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her honey-brown eyes, made up with dark eyeliner and a subtle orange shadow, searched the glass and the darkened streets beyond for something, albeit disinterested. One of her hands busied itself rolling a tiny rubber ball in tight circles on the table.

"This is what they're wearing over here now, Yoko? And people still wonder why I left for France," the man teased, easing into the seat across the table from the distracted woman.

"I thought you left for France because you like cheese so much," the woman replied, turning from the window with a calculated level of disengagement. When their eyes met, Yoko grinned, a twinkle in her warm gaze.

"You _have_ had cheese, right? If you still haven't educated yourself, I can bring some with me the next time I return," he smirked.

"I've had cheese, little brother." The title was diminutive. They were two thirds of a litter of three. Triplets. She was three minutes older than him.

"Just trying to bring you some culture."

"Oh, yes,  _Renard_ , do tell me about culture. Are you still working in America? A bastion of culture and refinement, to be sure," she drawled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"It certainly could be worse. It could be Australia. Social and scientific progress are only so impressive when the entire nation things khaki cutoff shorts are the height of fashion," Renard shuddered exaggeratedly, making his sister chuckle.

"I had assumed it would be a paradise for you. After all, a land full of attractive, scantily clad people? And you've always had a thing for ridiculous accents."

In his usual French accent, Renard strangled his Japanese, "I have no idea what you're talking about in the slightest. My accents are like music to the ears." He fell back into his natural accent with a laugh, "But no, as tempting a thought as it is, I simply cannot stand the moustaches. Fashion may change. Unaccompanied moustaches will always be a crime.

"I can't say as I disagree. Though our little brother still has his."

"He is history's greatest monster." The two shared a derisive chuckle, and Renard cast a glance about the restaurant. "Did you order already?"

Yoko nodded, "Yes. They're short-staffed tonight, but it should be out shortly. Scallion, pork belly, shrimp, snow peas, carrot, mushrooms, rice dough, and fried tofu. Could you load yours up with more?"

"I could. There's no squid nor octopus. I could always see if they have any pickled radish back there, too."

"Ugh, please, no. Good choice on the fried tofu, though. I hadn't thought of that. It's a lot of fried things."

"I live for fried things," Renard laughed, looking at the condiments on the table. "Is this all of the shredded bonito they have?"

"We can ask for more, relax."

"It's the principle. So, while we wait, is there anything I should be made aware of?"

"Aside from Kenji's moustache?" Yoko grinned.

"Are you still seeing that tengu fellow? How's he been?"

"Kazuhiro's doing well. His hot spring baths have been doing great business this past year. Tourism has been improving."

"That's good to hear. I've always liked him. The bird's ironically less flighty than those tanuki you always dated."

"I like people who can make me laugh. And without my little brother around, I need someone to keep me amused," Yoko shrugged, leaning in sadly. "I do miss you, Shigeru."

A sigh left Renard's nose at the sound of his birth name. It sounded so alien to him now, though its meaning fit him like a glove. "And I miss you, big sister, which is why I visit. You know how I like to avoid the family and the old world."

"I know, though I don't know if I'll ever grasp why. I thought you loved this place."

"I do," Renard replied, a bit wistful, "but Japan isn't like it was when I left. Japan was already not like it used to be by then. Today, it's even more different, and next Smissmas, when we meet again, it'll be more different still. I'm not the same fox as I once was. It is strange, returning and trying to behave like this place is anything like my fuzzy memories of a concept called 'home.' It's simpler to visit as an outsider, behind a paler face and blue eyes, and be a comfortable tourist, rather than a homesick woodland creature lost in a new world."

"You act as though we're stuck in a past that no longer exists."

Spy looked over to see a pretty young woman bringing over a pair of bowls filled with the ingredients Yoko had listed, bathing in shredded cabbage and an egg and flour batter. Outside, a few stray flakes of snow drifted past the restaurant's large windows. "You aren't." He turned back to his older sister. "I am."


	4. Badlands, New Mexico.  December 23rd, 1969.

"And this, Mum, is Michael Mundy," Demoman introduced, pride swelling in his voice.

"Mick," Sniper corrected, "Pleased to—"

"So yer the bloke me son's been swaggerin' home smellin' o' for months on end, aye?" Lady DeGroot interrupted, sniffing the air and making Sniper shift stiffly under her blind gaze.

When Demoman had invited him home for Smissmas, Sniper had been elated. He'd long stopped returning to Australia for the holidays, disinterested in being badgered by his father about his profession and choices in company. He knew the old man worried about him, wanted more for him than a criminal life of contract homicide and a string of non-human significant others, but he was his own man, making his own decisions, walking his own path through life. Nothing was changing the stubborn bushman's mind, much as nothing was changing his father's. His mum loved them both dearly, eternally frustrated with both pig-headed idiots.

The invitation had been an opportunity to have a proper Smissmas for the first time in a long time, and much more importantly, the chance to spend the holiday with the man he loved. Sniper and Demoman had been near-inseparable since the official beginning of their relationship, and he'd approached the holidays with trepidation, unsure as to what it meant for them.

When Demoman had proposed the idea, the bomber had been confused at Sniper's relief. He was head over heels the for the daft bastard; of course he'd want to bring him home to meet his mum!

What had been excitement quickly turned to dread, however, when Sniper was confronted with the reality of his situation. He'd heard the stories. Lady DeGroot was a spitfire even in her advanced age, and the old lady, bent forward on her cane, wore a wicked smirk as she made the lanky Australian squirm.

"Y—yes, ma'am. I, er, it's a pleasure to meet you. Tavish talks about you often," Sniper stammered out, nervously.

"Och, dinnae tell me. Last I need is tae ken what me son says about me behind me back," Lady DeGroot teased with a wave of her hand. "Now come down here so I can get a look at ye."

Urged gently by his lover, the assassin knelt and inched forward into range of the old woman, who reached out a hand to touch his face. He closed his eyes and let her search his features, getting a feel for how nature had seen fit to arrange them.

"Ye've got a long face, dinnae ye?"

"Had a few not-so-flattering comparisons to horses in the past," Sniper chuckled, trying not to move around too much.

"Strong, narrow jaw. Very handsome. Makes me think o' yer da, Tavish. Big nose, but it seems tae fit," she mumbled, leaving Sniper unsure whether to be complimented or insulted. "Ye must be a treat tae look at, Michael," she rejoined, smiling as she felt the bushman do the same.

"The view from behind is excellent," Demoman chuckled, making his mother snort in laughter.

"I may have tae see for meself," the old woman replied, lifting her hands from Sniper's face to wiggle her fingers and mime groping a butt in the air, a devilish grin on her lips.

Seeing Sniper's immediate flush of surprised and scandal, Demoman leaned in, one hand on his lover's shoulder. "Ye keep yer paws off me mate," he reprimanded jovially, swatting at one of her hands.

"Och, ye ken I kid," Lady DeGroot waved him off with a chuckle. "It's a pleasure, Michael. Now, let's three have a sit and take tea. I want tae get tae ken ye better. Learn who this mystery man who's turned me only son intae a blushin' schoolboy is."

"A blushin' schoolboy?" Sniper asked, standing and looking to Demoman with a smirk. The bomber's cheeks had reddened, and he avoided eye contact.

"Och, aye. He's always talkin' about ye. Sniper this, Mundy that, Mickey the other bloody thing. Makes me want tae ken a few things, like yer intentions with me boy. Weddin' bells, all that." She grinned wide at the startled sound both men made. "What about the scratch and patter o' wee little paws."

"Little...paws?"

"Aye! No son o' mine ain't givin' me a few grandchildren, by hook or by crook!" There was a pause, both men gawping, and Lady DeGroot regarded her son with terrible accuracy, raising an eyebrow. "He does ken we're werewolves, right? There's a full moon tonight, Tavish."


	5. South Boston, Massachusetts, USA.  December 24th, 1969.

The sound of jingling bells flooded in through the entryway as Marty answered the door. At once, each of the eleven children seated in the living room, once rapt to the old Smissmas special airing on the television, turned their attention to the noise, eyes widening in hope.

From the couch, Manny smirked, about to pop a cube of cheese from a toothpick into his mouth. "Here we go."

The jingling entered the house as the door clamped shut, sealing away the cold breeze that had rolled into the old home. Marty walked into the living room, trying to contain his grin, and announced to the children, "We've got a guest here to see you guys!"

"Who is it, Pops?" little Rachel, Marty's oldest, asked, tugging down her Santa hat.

"It's one of Santa's helpers!" her father cheered, turning to the hall. "Come on in, helper!"

The bells rang out again as through the entryway to the living room, Scout strode, a grin on his face and bells on his antlers, a large burlap sack thrown over one shoulder. He wore belled cuffs on his wrists, and wraps around his hocks, bells stitched onto them. His loin cloth, fitted to keep him tucked in and decent, was made of red satin, lined with white fur at its borders, fitted from a black leather belt with a large, brass buckle. A Santa hat was bobby-pinned in place between his antlers, atop his head, his hair peeking out under its rim. He looked the perfect anthropomorphisation of one of Santa Claus' eight tiny reindeer. So long as one didn't know the difference in markings and antlers, which not eve Scout really cared about.

"Uncle Bucky!" the children cried, crowding around their youngest uncle and hopping excitedly, firing questions at him at a mile a minute.

"Do you really work for Santa?"

"Do you pull his sled?"

"What's in the bag?"

"Pick me up!"

"Why ain't you wearin' a shirt?"

"BAMBI!" little Ben demanded, his tiny hand grabbing hold of the fur at Scout's knee and holding tight.

The faun winced, smiling weakly down at the two year old. "Benny, how 'bout you leggo a' Uncle Bucky's fur there, buddy? That kinda—ow—pinches, little guy." He gave Joe, who was busy smirking at his brother's ridiculous getup, a desperate glare. "Joe, your rugrat?"

"Oh! Uh, sorry, Bucky," Joe murmured, quickly scooping up his younger son and dislodging him from his little brother's follicles. He set the little terror down beside his big sister, her dark hair falling in curls around her face, "Hey Roxanne, how 'bout you take your brother over there an' we let Santa's little helper 'ere show us what 'e's got for you all?" He motioned to the middle of the room where the other children were beginning to congregate, and the six year old nodded with a broad grin that was missing a few teeth, and led her brother slowly over. Ben squealed in excitement, clapping his hands, and Roxanne recoiled at the noise, pain on her face. She shot a put-out look to her father who smiled apologetically. Her uncles mimicked the gesture.

"Alright, who else wants to see what Santa sent me 'ere to give you guys?" Scout announced cheerfully, stepping into the middle of the room and slinging his burlap sack carefully off of his shoulder and to the floor. He knelt beside it and began to unwind the rope binding it closed.

"Did Santa really send you to give us stuff?" Manny's son Jay asked.

"He sure did! He said you guy's'd been so good this year that you deserve some stuff early! Me an' him are close, personal friends, yanno," Scout smiled, rubbing his nails on his chest then inspecting them casually. He deigned not to mention the fact that he'd been involved with killing a different spirit of the season earlier that month.

"Why doesn't he just bring them tomorrow?" Rachel asked.

"He knew I was comin' over, so he gave me these to give to you. Compliments 'a the elf himself!" Opening the bag, Scout dug around inside and began to tug brightly wrapped presents from its depths, handing one out to each child with a wide, buck-toothed grin. The sounds of tearing and shredding and cheering and arguing filled the room, the faun surveying his handiwork as the kids ripped open their presents and set to playing and comparing.

"What do you say?" Ma asked, trying to look stern in spite of the utterly charmed smile on her face.

"Thank you!" the children hollered, almost as an after thought, and went right back to playing.

"You're welcome," Scout replied, his words lost amid the din. He stood, straightening his loincloth as Ma rounded on him, laying a hand on his bare shoulder.

"You look adorable," she gushed, flicking one of the bells hanging from his antlers. "Ain't you cold?"

"Nah," the faun shrugged. "Honestly my concept 'a hot an' cold is so messed up from livin' in the desert it took me a little bit to notice it's December," he laughed. "Plus, I, uh, left my jacket in the hall."

"Why no shirt?"

"Reindeer don't wear shirts, Ma."

"They don't wear—what, loincloths? They don't wear those either."

"Gotta stay decent," Scout laughed, ignoring his mother's exasperation. He looked around, an eyebrow cocked. "No Lucien?"

"After Thanksgivin', I figured maybe he an' I should spend our time together _away_ from the rest 'a the family. I'm seein' him the day after tomorrow."

"Guess the big lump 'a coal I left on the porch is gonna go to waste, then. Wrapped it an' everythin'."

"You're awful."

"Eh, so's he," Scout shrugged.


	6. Badlands, New Mexico, USA.  December 25th, 1969.

Canned tomato soup was red. The leftover ribs from last week that he'd forgotten about under the bed were green by now, but not very festive. So he crumbled the last of his crackers into the pot of soup and let it drift from his hands like fresh, jagged, crunchy snow.

Soldier lifted his pot from the hot plate on the counter and unplugged the device, then grabbed what was a clean enough spoon and shuffled over to the bed of his studio apartment. The television buzzed away with the usual holiday crap about love and togetherness, so he turned on the news and let it drone quietly in the background, colours flickering and light wavering through the dark room. He didn't particularly care what was on, so long as it was some noise.

He sat on his bed, his bathrobe warm if ratty around his shoulders, and ate his soup from the pot using an overlarge mixing spoon. He stared blankly at the television, rabbiting on in the dark.

It had been five days. Seven more were left of this furlough. Until he got to go home, his real home, the base with his team. Seven days until he was surrounded by the rowdy shouts of his friends, Sniper's simmering sarcasm, Spy's haughtiness, Heavy's easygoing wisdom, Medic's manic energy, Demoman's roguish grinning, Pyro's eternal excitability, Engineer's responsible recklessness. Seven days until he could see Scout's goofy buck-toothed grin again. Until then, there was darkness, and tomato soup.

He set the pot down on his night stand and opened the stand's drawer. Inside, a picture sat, its glass broken with a few jagged pieces remaining. The wooden frame was coming apart at one corner. He picked up the frame, and looked at the photo.

Two men occupied the picture, one of them being Soldier himself. The other was a tall black man with one eye and the most handsome smile Soldier had ever gazed upon, his Tavish. The RED Demoman. Behind them, a boardwalk and beach extended into the distance, a pier extending out over the ocean, bearing a ferris wheel. Each man had an arm wrapped around the other at the waist, their bodies tucked together as they posed for the camera, each holding an overlarge ice cream cone in their free hands. Neither had eaten any of the frozen treat, their mouths occupied with one another, lips pressed together even as they curled into giddy smiles.

Only two people owned copies of that photograph: himself, and the beautiful bomber beside him. They'd made sure of it, having it developed themselves after punching the boardwalk photographer, stealing his camera, and throwing a wad of bills at him as they walked away. They'd destroyed the negatives. They'd destroyed the camera. Friendship was enough of a risk between members of opposing factions.

Romance was pure madness.

He should've realized that in the first place, not let himself fall for the Scot, not said anything, left well enough alone and stayed his friend. Maybe if they hadn't gotten so sloppy, sneaking more and more time together, their superiors wouldn't have found out. They wouldn't have pressured them. They wouldn't have told him the kind of lies Tavish had spread about him as a result, and maybe he could have lived on in blissful ignorance of the betrayal.

But maybe if he hadn't been so afraid of how the Scot, hounded by the supernatural as he was, would react if he knew Soldier's secret, he wouldn't have been so ready to believe the news the Administrator's agent had delivered. If he wasn't scared of what she would resort to next if her half-hearted ruse didn't work, he wouldn't have jumped at the mention of the dreaded C-word.

Soldier was not a smart man, and he knew it. He hadn't finished school, he didn't have 'book smarts', in part because he couldn't read the damn things. But he wasn't that stupid. He knew it wasn't Tavish's voice.

But if she'd gone to those lengths to dissuade him, if she'd put efforts into sending her agents after Tavish to deter him from associating with her employee, putting them into the line of fire from the other company's men, then there was no doubt that she'd go further if stymied. And if she knew enough about the both of them to deliver those threats, then she knew enough about Tavish to know how he might react to learning a certain important secret about his darling Jane. That was the next step, wasn't it?

He'd rather Tavish think he was a traitor than a monster. He'd rather be hated than the object of disgust.

But he hadn't even given him the chance to react on his own terms. Instead, he'd taken those Mann Co. boots, christened them in the bomber's blood, and let Tavish do the same to him with his haunted blade. Because he was too much of a coward to face rejection. He'd rather fight a bloody, pointless war against the man he loved, instead.

Soldier took a deep breath through his nose, willing tears away. He would not cry. He was a man. Men did not cry. Especially not over other men. Men that they'd been looking at rings for. Men that they'd had post-war plans with. Men whose scent they still recall, whose body they've touched every inch of, whose lips were still burned into his memory.

Did undead cry?

He set down the photograph in its broken frame, swallowing hard the lump in his throat. He stood, walked over to the television, and turned up the volume to drown out his thoughts. Returning to the bed, he sat back down and picked up his pot of soup with its soppy crackers and resumed eating his Smissmas dinner.


End file.
